


Many Of Horror

by otayuri_oh_nice



Series: Unsteady [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Music, Concert, M/M, Singer Yuri Plisetsky, musician au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 14:31:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14138010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otayuri_oh_nice/pseuds/otayuri_oh_nice
Summary: A 'Unsteady' story set at Wembley Stadium.





	Many Of Horror

“This is a [new one, hope you’ll like it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mAh--lH0H3U),” Yuri said, the crowd answering with loud cheering, tens of thousands of faceless bodies spread across the floor and stands all around him, the Wembley Stadium sold out for three nights in a row.

It was one of those nights, the air charged, as though connected to a live wire, crisp and clear, almost sharp. The sky, although he couldn’t see it, was clear and littered with millions of stars much brighter than his thoughts, days, emotions, and life. Yuri hadn’t been sure if he’d really play this track, if it was ready, if he’d even be able to play it live without everything going to shit, but Mila assured him that it was perfect, that he could do it. Victor and Chris repeated the words back to him across the entire damn day leading up to this moment. Looking off to the side of the stage he could see Chris nod and Yuuri give him a thumbs up.

When he closed his eyes, he could still heard it, hear him say it, pronounce every syllable, every letter, every sound, could see the way his lips moved when he formed the words. At first they sounded like sunshine, warm and beautiful, a healing touch, but then, as time went by, they were nothing but fierce lashes of a whip cracking across his skin, every cell and fiber of his being, a scalpel cutting every inch of his skin into ribbons.

So many of Yuri’s songs were personal, fucking raw at times, hardship wrapped in pretty paper made of sharp edges and luring you in with a promise of things you’d never get. They were his personal journey laid out in words and chords and melodies, pain and happiness, bruises and drinks. Critics always pointed out his genius, especially as for someone who wasn’t even a native English speaker, making those words sound like complements even though Yuri was sure they were meant as backhanded insults.

When he truly took off, Yuri loved how dedicated his _angels_ were to him, to figuring out what his songs truly were about and stood for, the admiration they felt for his lyricism and talent, but now, as he stood on that stage, he hated it. All of it. All of them. It wasn’t fair of him to think that way, they were the ones who made him famous after all, but really, had any of it ever been truly worth it? At times, yes, but now?

What would they think? What theories and thoughts will they have, will they spread? Will they even listen well enough to wonder whom he talked about? Did he even want them to do any of it? He wasn’t sure but knew that it was fucking inevitable. The moment he started the song, it stopped being his, maybe had a long time ago. Now it was theirs, was out there to be judged, analyzed, dissected like a corpse to determine how he died. And maybe…maybe he was. On the inside at least.

After the show he’d return to his once more empty room, be alone with his thoughts, his feelings, his phone lighting up with notifications, with calls from Victor making sure he was all right though they all knew it was pointless. Yuri wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t open the door with the _do not disturb sign_ hanging on it, would threaten to fire anyone who’d dare even get close to it. They could keep their fucking pity and disgustingly worried expressions to themselves. He didn’t want to see them, didn’t want to hear it all over again.

This was the life he’d been given, the life he’d chosen, and whatever came with it, so it was. And as he stood on that stage, sang those words _When you hit me hit me hard_ it seemingly took everything off of him to not show how they hurt. When he’d written them, the page beneath his pen had turned splotchy, the words started running, turned blurry, his words indecipherable with how his hand trembled. It wasn’t the first song that talked about it, but fuck, this one hurt the most.

But despite it all, he stood on that stage bathed in cold white light, his band hidden in the shadows, the crowd like the sea during a storm, wild, untamable, unforgiving. He closed his eyes and just sang, focused just on the sounds, the way they came together to form the words, how they danced and hugged the melody and told a story many would never be able to understand. They’d feel pity, sadness, anger, for him but not with him. Maybe a select few would feel it, would find themselves in his words, would find clarity and answers in what he felt was an inescapable cage, would break free and live to tell their stories, would tell him and thank him.

And many times he’d wish he could be just like them.

That love were as beautiful as constellations, as colorful lights at parties, the soft touches of a lover instead of the sharp, bruising pain of a palm.

_I still believe it's you and me 'til the end of time_


End file.
